


His Humanity Awakes

by Dreadfort



Series: Innocence and Experience Series [2]
Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Crossover, Daemons, Friendship, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Magic Realism, Male Friendship, Souls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreadfort/pseuds/Dreadfort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a bit hard to call Sherlock 'heartless' when his soul paced around the floor shaped as a medium-sized African cat.</p><p>Sequel to 'The Difference Between Innocence and Experience'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback would be really appreciated, I'm stepping further out of my comfort zones as a writer with this one, so please let me know any thoughts or comments you have. Thank you!

The smooth, elegant notes of Sherlock Holmes’ violin caressed the air of 221b. The case was solved - though Shan had evaded capture – and Sherlock was enjoying its afterglow. The melody swept out into the corridor, where two daemons had settled to discuss the night’s events, for once unobserved by the detective’s eye as he delved into the music.

“I wish I saw her face when you told her the pin was worth nine million pounds!” Leofas was saying as she paced around the landing. John had gone up to bed some time ago and clearly fallen asleep, and the daemon found moving around helped prevent her succumbing into shared unconsciousness. She didn’t want to leave Lavoisier just yet.

Lavoisier was watching her serenely. “Her daemon was comical. I’d not seen a meerkat fall off a desk in shock before.” she said.

Leofas huffed in amusement. “What about Lion King?”

“What?” replied Lavoisier, frowning in confusion. 

Leo rolled her eyes and butted the serval playfully with her head. “Never mind. Popular culture reference.”

“Ahh,” replied the cat-daemon in distain. 

Leo yawned widely. “Do you mind, though? That General Shan got away?”

“It’s a vast network, Leo. We barely scratched the surface.”

The wolf nodded, lying down next to Lavoisier, her eyes slowly spending more time closed than open. 

“You can’t fall asleep here!” Lavoisier hissed. 

“The flat’s also mine,” mumbled Leo. “I can do what I want.”

The cat grumbled in half-hearted reply and settled down beside her companion, listening to the music her human was playing. She conceded to herself that it was rather pleasant to lay on the solid wooden floor, leaning into Leo’s soft fur, body heat soaking into each other. 

Lavoisier wondered briefly if all wolf fur was this silky, or only a settled daemon’s. Perhaps that was be an experiment she and Sherlock could conduct – investigating the subtle differences between a true animal and a daemon in its form. She knew they existed; one could tell a daemon immediately on sight. But _how_ was the intricacy and unravelling it would definitely assist in solving cases. She’d suggest it tomorrow.

Stretching out her long legs into a more relaxed position, her nose was now buried in Leo’s ruff of neck fur, allowing every breath to bring in the deep comfort of wolf/Leo/John smells. If Sherlock walked in now he’d call it snuggling. She’d call it data analysis and categorisation. And both would understand what the other meant and neither would mind.

Inside the living room the bow left the strings for a moment to allow a particularly poignant note to hang in the air; and it was in this instant that Lavoisier heard it.

The subtlest of squeaks, but captured by her ears. It was exactly the noise made by the creak of the third stair. 

Instantly all senses were trained on the stairwell. And then, above the frazzled syncopation issuing from the violin, she heard the unmistakable sound of a weight being lifted off that third step.

Gently, quietly, she moved over to Leo and whispered, “Leo – don’t move, just listen. Someone’s coming up the stairs. Right now.”

The wolf was motionless. Asleep! Lavoisier battered her in the face. “Leo!!” she hissed. “Wake up!”

That was the seventh’s step creak. She could alert Sherlock, but that would tell this killer – for who else would be sneaking so efficiently into the flat at this hour; certainly not the police, they weren’t capable – that she was aware of them. They’d attack without hesitation, and Leo would be defenceless. 

“ _Leo!!_ ” Lavoisier cried, hoping she was hidden under the violin’s wail. Pushing now, and biting her ear, the stupid mutt’s head was just lolling on the ground. John must be _deeply_ asleep. 

It was too late. The intruders must be just below the landing. She didn’t have time – “ _SHERLOCK!_ ” Lavoisier screamed in warning, and the music cut off just as she was slammed into the wall. 

Stunned and gasping for breath, Lavoisier righted herself to see a scene of carnage. Her human, also winded, was grappling with a cloaked figure wielding a sword, and judging by the phantom pain in her right foreleg, had already been injured. 

Leo must have woken with her shout, and was taking on the intruder’s daemon – a ridiculously fierce baboon with teeth that looked every bit as dangerous as they did unhygienic. Canine and primate were battling at each other’s throats, Leo snarling with an intensity Lavoisier had rarely seen before. 

With a cry the serval leapt onto the baboon’s back, digging into its skin with her claws and biting deeply into the daemon’s snout. 

Simultaneously the daemon’s human jerked back and Sherlock used the sympathy pain’s distraction to send a boxer’s punch to the man’s neck. He stumbled down the stairs, sword clattering uselessly to the floor. Sherlock darted down without hesitation, where they began a fist fight on the lower level.

Lavoisier hung onto the assassin’s daemon, but her jaws weren’t the strongest in the animal kingdom and fatigue was making them relax. She could hear muffled, agonisingly slow, limping footsteps above which indicated John was finally awake. Leo, who had been tossed to the ground with a broken tibia, had lost the sleep- glazed look to her eyes. 

But this observation failed to have importance when the baboon reached behind her head grasped the cat tightly and wrenched her away. Vampiric fangs were revealed as the creature’s enormous jaw opened to rip Lavoisier’s throat out – the cat clawed at everything she could reach but the baboon’s thick fur was too much protection. 

With a furious roar that sounded like “ _NO!_ ” Leo launched herself from the ground, intending to clash teeth to teeth with barely a thought for her own safely. 

But Leo’s shattered leg somewhat hampered this manoeuvre, and that gave the baboon-daemon time to change her vice-like grip on Lavoisier and use the serval’s body to clobber the wolf away. 

Then several things happened at once.

On the downstairs landing, Sherlock’s judo abilities sent a palm into the assassin’s face, smashing his attacker’s nose into his brain. 

On the upstairs landing, the baboon daemon vanished, dumping Lavoisier to the floor.

And Leo’s broken back leg prevented her from regaining her footing.

The guttural cry that emerged from the depths of John’s lungs was unholy. As his daemon crashed down the stairs and well beyond the comfortable separation distance, a wolfish yelping mingled in response as they shared each other’s pain. 

That hideous, tearing sensation; every cell in your body screaming in pain – having half your soul stripped away as though daggers were clawing at every part of you; the two parts of John Watson were a picture of agony. Lavoisier could only watch on, helpless, as with every moment John’s daemon fell further away from him and these feelings magnified. They would be dead if the wolf’s body reached the ground floor.

Leofas hit the halfway landing and kept skidding, her crying ceasing as the physical and emotional trauma of separation became overwhelming and she passed out. John’s hideous, tortured scream was now intermixed with sobbing breaths. The serval wished deafness upon herself.

It was with too much clarity she heard the thud that indicated John had collapsed. Lavoisier scrambled to get up from where she’d fallen after the baboon’s death, only to find Leo had slid completely out of sight. 

There was a hitched gasp from the human upstairs, then a total, horrific silence.


	2. Chapter 2

The taboo is so complete that Sherlock Holmes is not sure he ever learned it, more that it was a rule that ran deep enough to be considered instinct. 

_You do not touch someone else’s daemon._

The nausea that swept through his body at the very thought of violating the rule was not uncommon. For a man whose sense of morality flittered through various shades of grey, twisting to fulfill whims and aims, this rule shone beyond petty things like laws – it was an absolute. A law that commanded respect like those of the universe that dictated reality.

But the agonised screams issuing from upstairs that pierced his eardrums drove deep into the primal portions of his mind. The amygdala was possibly one of the two facets of his brain that didn't conceive of the taboo, and it was this part precisely that activated and shot fear throughout his transport system. 

That’s the only way he can fathom why his body flung itself up the stairs as soon as John’s lungs started to tear themselves apart. An all consuming fear rendered his brain offline and thus unable to process any thought besides _stop this, stop this, STOP THIS!!!_

So when the tortured wolf’s body bounced towards him, Sherlock held out his arms and caught the daemon tightly against his chest, bare hands sinking into her soft, soft fur.

There was an audible gasp from John. Then nothing.

Her warmth was surprising. Staggering slightly from her weight and momentum, Sherlock lurched up the stairs as fast as the circumstances could allow. He refused to think of anything other than the need to bring Leofas closer to John. Especially not think about how the shock of human touch could overwhelm their tortured selves; the probability of the daemon in his arms vanishing at any moment was still terrifyingly real.

Sherlock reached the hallway landing and fled into the living room. The less time he spent in physical contact with Leofas the better, and he gently eased the wolf onto the black couch. She lay how he placed her, carefully, so her broken leg had no weight on it. Feeling a familiar nudge on his leg, Sherlock found his own wonderful daemon offering a pillow. 

For a moment their eyes met.

 _I didn’t know what else to do,_ Sherlock’s said.

 _It was the right thing,_ she replied silently. 

_I’m scared,_ neither of them said, but both saw.

Sherlock nodded grimly and set the pillow under Leofas’ shattered tibia, furiously trying to delete the comparison between her slack limbs and those of a fresh cadaver that immediate leapt to mind. Lavoisier leapt onto the couch to check over the daemon herself. 

Absolute silence was still issuing from upstairs. 

_John._

Bolting from the sitting room, Sherlock almost tripped over the sprawled, lifeless figure of John Watson lying at the top of the stairs. One hand was reaching feebly for the staircase, the other clutching the shirt above his heart hard enough to tear it. His eyes were closed but the pain was described in every line on his face. 

With a gentleness usually reserved for particularly fascinating evidence, Sherlock levered John into a sitting position, leaning against his own kneeling form while he considered how to move him downstairs. Reuniting John with his daemon as soon as possible was imperative. He circled John’s arms around his neck and stood him up, before reaching around his knees and hoisting him over his shoulders. Checking quickly that John was secure, Sherlock carefully manoeuvred back the way he’d come. 

They were halfway to the living room when a Sherlock heard a small, strangled cough from next to his shoulder.

“Fireman’s carry,” John whispered. “Haven’t been in one of these since Afghanistan.”

“ _John._ I -” Sherlock began, but didn’t continue. Everything he could say was firmly in the category of ‘not good’. Now his own shock and trauma at the night’s events was wearing off, the full horror of his actions was unfolding in devastating clarity. 

_He’d touched John’s daemon. Without his permission._ He'd committed the most depraved, unforgivable crime imaginable against _John_. 

Sherlock paused momentarily on the last step as painful nausea rocked through him. 

“Get me to Leo,” John’s whisper broke on his daemon’s name. “Please ...”

The living room was swimming at the edges of his vision as Sherlock lowered his in-all-probability-now ex-flat mate onto the couch. John flung himself onto Leo, and both pressed into each other as tightly as they could. 

Lavoisier was waiting for him out in the hallway, their mobile phone under her paw. Of course. Lestrade had to be informed of the assassin’s body currently decorating the foyer. 

Without looking back, Sherlock closed the living room door behind him, and vaguely wondered why the latch’s solid click felt like a bullet tearing through his chest.


	3. Chapter 3

The text he sends Lestrade is brief yet sufficient to launch the Detective Inspector out of bed immediately. 

**Be there in 10. Don’t do anything idiotic.**

Sherlock Holmes glared at the screen. Behind it the assassin’s blood leeched slowly into Mrs Hudson’s rug, creeping towards the stairs he sat on to wait for Lestrade. Lavoisier stopped her incessant pacing momentarily to read the phone for herself. She noded once to confirm, then paused, studying her human’s raw, trembling eyes. 

With sudden violence, Sherlock hurled himself up and flung his phone bodily into the wall. A strangled hiss leaked out through his clenched teeth and he staggered drunkenly, hands raised to his face. 

He can feel it coating his hands, his arms. He is hyper alert to every point John’s daemon touched him. They are burning with shame. In that moment he hates them, the advertisement that they are of what he did. He would cut them off rather than look at them. 

A sharp pain in his calf diverts his attention; Lavoisier. 

“Get a grip on yourself,” she snarls. 

“I need a shower,” Sherlock replied hoarsely. “Have to scrub it off. Get it _off. Now._ ”

“What you need to do,” his daemon replied, rearing up onto him, “is talk to John and explain what happened.”

Sherlock grabbed her head and threw her away from him. “Explain _what_. I _touched his daemon_.”

Growling, Lavoisier leapt onto his chest and gripped his head between her paws, their own defiance reflected back at each other as their eyes meet. Her back legs dug painfully into his stomach. 

“They’ve calmed down now,” she said, flicking her ears. “I’m not sure we’ll-“

“-have another opportunity,” Sherlock finished her sentence. His daemon nodded sadly, and suddenly Sherlock was clutching her tightly against him, hugging her in a way he hadn’t for years. Her soft head pushed against the underside of his jaw. 

Together they climbed up the fateful stairs, Sherlock releasing her when they reached the landing. 

He grips the doorknob tightly as he knocks on the flat’s door for the first time in his life.

“John?” he asked softly, hating the gravel in his voice. 

“Come in,” John’s reply is stiff. Military-like. This is not a good sign. Sherlock enters quickly, eyes sweeping the scene; both man and daemon are resting on the couch, Leofas’s leg has been expertly bandaged and John is gripping a cup of tea. The only cup of tea prepared. The gaping hole of _something_ that opened up when Sherlock shut the door before seems to tear freshly at the sight of the solitary mug. 

He forces himself to look at John.

His ex-best friend meets his gaze without hesitation. John’s mouth is set in a line, and the ghost of his agony gives unwanted character to his eyes, lending him a haunted, removed look. 

Sherlock realises he can barely recognise him. This is John the soldier, no – the invalid, reverted back to before they met. A man who had seen so much and felt so much pain that he was pushed into the realm of the unfeeling. 

“ _John_ – I – I am so sorry,” Sherlock blurts out. “And Leofas – I – a thousand apologies,”

“Leo said she was falling, and you stopped her,” said John in a flat voice. 

“Yes – I felt it – necessary. To ...” he can’t say it. “I had no malicious intent,” Sherlock finishes. He doesn’t ask forgiveness. He doesn’t deserve forgiveness. 

A muffled pounded floats up from downstairs. Lestrade must have arrived.

“We would like to be alone, now,” John’s hand grips his daemon’s fur. The tonelessness in his voice is unbearable. 

Sherlock nods. “I will cover your half of the bills from this point on, so you may move out immediately.” He says, and with Lavoisier leading the way, leaves. The latch’s click is just as painful the second time.

 

They find Lestrade examining the assassin’s body. Lavoisier greets his bulldog-daemon with far more cordiality than their humans do. 

“I knew him,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade looked appalled. “What? Who is he?”

“Linked to a case. Arrived in the morning, Joh- I was alone. Knocked him out. Apparently he’s too thick to get my message.”

“You know I’m going to have to file a report.”

Sherlock groaned and wrung his hands through his hair. “No, this is why I called _you_ , and not _Gregson_ or any of the other-” He paused. “How long will it take?”

“Half an hour? I’ve got to get the paperwork.”

Sherlock glanced at his daemon, and she nodded. Half an hour would lessen the chances of them running into John in the living room or foyer. 

“Fine.” He conceded, and retrieved his phone from where it had landed. The screen had a deep crack dividing it into halves. “He had a baboon-daemon,” Sherlock added as he checked the mobile’s functions; still working. When he glanced up, Lestrade was staring at him.

“Are you alright?” The DI asked with a predictable mix of concern and surprise. 

“Fine.” Sherlock snapped again.

“What-”

“I SAID I’M FINE,” Sherlock bellowed with considerably less composure than he desired. Lestrade gripped his arms and held him still. 

“What else happened besides the assassin.” Lestrade asked firmly. 

“Nothing,” said Sherlock with venom. His self-control was cracking dangerously, and at this proximity even Lestrade couldn’t fail to notice it. He stepped back but the DI’s grip wouldn’t break. 

Then Lestrade’s stupid snubbed nose daemon spoke up. “Where’s Leo?” she asked his own excellent daemon. Sherlock glared at her.

“John is out. Date.” He said. “Look Lestrade, I called you because there are bodily fluids draining into my landlady’s carpet. Not to have a chat about _feelings_. For god’s sake. Give me the paperwork and go home.”

The living room door did not open again that night.


	4. Chapter 4

The kitchen door creaked open far sooner after he’d sent the text than John thought it would. He sat where he’d slept, on the black couch; the tartan blanket pooling around his feet. He unclenched his phone from his hand onto the side table, and watched as Sherlock took a chair and sat opposite John, daemon curled protectively in front of his bare feet. Early morning sunlight streamed into the sitting room, illuminating Sherlock’s lingering gaze. The air was tense, neither wanting to misstep. It felt like a court room. 

John swallowed to unclog his throat, the speech he’d been rehearsing long before he finally sent the damn text having fallen out of his brain when Sherlock was somewhere between the kitchen cabinets and sitting expectantly before him. 

“Have – have you ever had your daemon touched?” John blurted out. _Oh brilliant form, Watson, begin with the most personal question imaginable_ , he internally berated himself. _That’ll really help the situation._

“No,” replied Sherlock, unperturbed by John’s lack of social grace, “I haven’t.”

“Okay,” said John, looking at his hands for a moment. He rubbed them together before answering. “I ... have. Before tonight.”

Sherlock stilled, and Lavoisier, who had been staring at Leo since she walked in, snapped her attention to John.

“Did Mycroft offer you my file when I moved in?” asked John.

“Yes.”

“Did you take it?”

Sherlock paused, as though seeking the right response in John’s face. “No,” he said finally, truthfully.

“Pity,” John conceded, sensing the mirroring of a conversation held long before but unable to summon any humour, “Would have made this easier.”

“John, I know why the taboo exists, you don’t need to explain –"

“If you’ve never had your daemon touched, for either reason, then there is a ton of explaining that needs to happen, right now.” John says, instructing himself as much as his flatmate.

Sherlock settled back into his chair and fixed John with a searing glare, fingers steepled in front of his nose. Waiting. 

John's body is instantly searing hot, hands clammy and heartbeat thudding in his ear. His mouth takes the texture of sandpaper. Sherlock’s unrelenting gaze makes it worse; John knows he is observing and processing every nuance of expression in his face. "We haven’t told anyone this before,” John said eventually, voice grating into a whisper. 

Then Leo stretches a paw onto his leg, and her big wolf eyes that John can read better than any human ones are so trusting and encouraging that John thinks he can continue. He licks his lips to try again.

“When Leo was touched before tonight most of it wasn’t for the ... good reason. The only woman I ever shared my daemon with ended it before... It ended while we were in Afghanistan. A ‘Dear John’ letter, can you believe it. And then, I’m not sure if you’ve deduced this or whatever, but I was captured. And tortured.”

He senses, rather than sees, Sherlock leaning closer, animated in his interest.

“Many torture methods involve daemons, often its separation. But _especially_ touching. No amount of training can properly prepare you to withstand it. You can’t see what’s happening, you’re in separate rooms, and they just do _it. Touch her._ It’s so _wrong_ , the violation cuts so deep - like they’re taking something precious deep inside you and _crushing_ it." 

John speaks faster, words tumbling out and stained with choking bitterness. "Soon you can’t even feel the disgust, you’re left weak and helpless as they invade you again and again. You go mad with the horror.”

John pauses to exhale a shuddering breath. “The way things went last night ... there were parallels.”

Sherlock’s face is stricken, colour drained even further from his cheeks to the point of a corpse like pallor. John’s eyes itch as he raises them to meet Sherlock’s.

“There were also massive differences. Thank you. For saving us.”

Sherlock’s eyes are wide in his panic. “John - I didn’t know, I mean I thought I knew-"

“It’s one of those things where hearing about it and actually experiencing it are worlds apart, Sherlock. But I need to account for why I was awful to you last night when you only tried to help. _I’m_ sorry.”

Leo sat up awkwardly, her broken leg still resting on the pillow, and addressed Sherlock herself. “John didn’t properly explain why the differences were massive. Its because the reason behind the person doing the touching is incredibly important. As well as the recipient’s reason. We can _feel_ your intent. You can’t lie in a daemon touch – both parties bare their souls.”

“They use psychopaths for the torturing,” John adds, “So no remorse bleeds into you.”

“We knew immediately, Sherlock, that you were trying to help.” Said Leo. “That there was no malice behind your actions.”

“You daft git,” said John softly, noticing something flare up in Sherlock’s expression before being buried down again, “you’re stuck with us contaminating your crime scenes and ruining your experiments for a while longer.”

Sherlock frowned. “When did you contaminate a crime scene?” he demanded, as John grinned and stood up, wincing slightly at the sympathetic pain leeching through his bond with Leo. Thank god daemons healed quickly.

“Want a cuppa?” John asked as he collected his cold, empty mug off the table. “Cos I could definitely use one.”

The hesitation in Sherlock that preceded his reply had John putting the cup right back down again. “Sherlock,” he said seriously, kneeling down next to Sherlock’s chair, “what aren’t you sure about?”

The detective’s quiet, warm breath washed over John, markedly faster than its usual rate. This close John can see the impatient finger tapping is an attempt to mask their trembling. He has to fight a ridiculously fierce urge to collect one of those hands and soothe it in his own. 

“I’m forgiven, then?” Sherlock bites out, looking everywhere but John. 

“There’s nothing to forgive. You saved my life.” John said carefully.

“You’re not leaving?”

John refrained from a teasing remark about repetition and obviousness when he detected a thread of insecurity lacing Sherlock’s words. He began to fidget himself, else he reassure Sherlock in some unwanted way. He’d never wanted to just put his hand on someone’s shoulder this much before, or pat their leg, or do _something_ to restore confidence. But they hadn’t done that before. They’d just patched up their latest misunderstanding; he dare not risk it. 

“No, well, great location, isn’t it? Jubilee Line and everything,” John rambled instead. “How about that cuppa?” he grabbed the cup and fled to the kitchen.

 _Coward._ His brain whispered. 

Behind him, Lavoisier jumped onto the couch and buried herself into Leo’s fur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive feedback/critique on this chapter would be highly appreciated! Thanks!


	5. Chapter 5

“Where’s...” John said when he returned to the living room with two steaming mugs of tea.

“Mind palace,” replied Lavoisier, flicking her ears in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Ahh.” John set the cups down, not sure if he was relieved. “Let me check your bandage, Leo,”

He pulled a chair over and began unwinding the cloth slowly, feeling every twinge in his own leg, and so focused that it was only after he’d made sure the splint was still correctly aligned he realised Lavoisier had left.

“The bone is starting to knit together; I think you’ll be better in a day or so. More of a fracture than a complete break, thankfully.” He said.

“Let’s hope we’ve got a rest from cases then,” said Leo, stretching out on the couch. “I don’t fancy being carted around after those two in a wheelbarrow.”

John sipped his tea.

“How are you feeling?” he asked his daemon.

Leo hesitated, then pulled herself off the couch with considerable awkwardness, and limped past John to the door.  A raised ear and jerk of her head said clearly, _let’s talk upstairs_.

The words “Bring your tea,” floated down from the stairs as the wolf-daemon climbed them, and John obliged.

 

\---

 

Leo had sunk herself deep into the pillows on the bed when John arrived, and he pulled one out from under her to put behind his back as he settled onto the covers himself. 

“Is there something in particular you want to talk about?” he asked her, putting his tea on the bedside table to run his fingers through the fur on her neck.

“Yeah,” Leo replied. “All of it.”

“Well there’s clearly something more specific on your mind,” said John. “Just say it.”

“Okay. I want to talk about how Sherlock’s touch felt so different to Mary’s.”

John reeled from his daemon, lungs instantly vacated of air, the shock from Leo’s words feeling like a slap on his face.

“ _What?”_ he gasped.

“Or did it just feel different to me?” said Leofas with determined indifference to John’s reaction.

John leant down, clutching his head to alleviate the blood pounding through his skull.  When he finally turned to face his daemon, his eyes were bloodshot and his frown fierce.

“We’ve _never_ spoken about that. _Ever_. And you bring it up _now?_ ”

“I had to bring it up sometime, John.”

“ _Now?_ After what’s happened?”

“So you _do_ think there was a difference.” Leo said swiftly.  “Well then, if yesterday proved anything, it was that we can’t put off discussing it any longer!”

“Was it always there? Did you always feel it?” John spat. “You want to talk about it – we’ll talk about it! When Mary offered you comfort – when she held you in her arms and patted you, and stroked you, and whispered in your ear – _you always felt it, didn’t you?_ But we never spoke of it! _EVER!_ ”

“We _feel the same thing_ , John!”

“It was there, it was always there ... every time we touched daemons – it showed us exactly what was going to happen; how did we miss that, Leo?” John said, the angry heat leaving his face and voice to leave only hollow misery.

“We didn’t have anything to reference it against, until yesterday.“ Leo said, wincing.

John rubbed his eyes bitterly. “We were a textbook case of denial. We thought the core foundation of every daemon- contact relationship was ridden with a cancer of unhappiness? That an undercurrent of unease, regret and embarrassment was normal? We thought or hoped?”

Leo didn’t reply. They both knew the answer.

 “The difference is that with Sherlock there was nothing toxic, or poisonous.” John said brokenly. He turned to look at his daemon, running his hands back through her comforting fur.

“I could feel him _holding_ my _soul_ ... holding _us_ ...” he whispered. “Through all that pain – I thought it would kill us, Leo, I thought we were dead - and then ... it was like a candle in the darkness. I clung to it... I felt _safe_.”

Leo nuzzled closer to him. “I thought Afghanistan might have ruined us. I was so scared to be touched by any one, ever again.” She admitted softly. “I’d rather have gone the rest of our lives being untouched than discover we couldn’t feel other’s hearts.”

“But we can,” John said, smiling through the hot, silent tears that had finally spilled from his raw eyes.  “And what emotions to feel - _sociopath_ – he’s such a liar.”

 

\----- 

 

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly and unclasped his hands as he surfaced from his mind palace to see his daemon staring unblinkingly from his bed.

“What went wrong?” she asked, sitting down with great poise.

“I can’t file it properly.” Sherlock said, rubbing his temples. “What happened last night – I can store the information, but the links aren’t working.  I can’t categorise it.”

“’It’ being the emotional upheaval we experienced?”

“Yes,” Sherlock grimaced. “That would be it.”

“Perhaps your mind palace-“

Sherlock stood up and crossed the room, opening the doors to his wardrobe. “There’s _nothing_ wrong with my mind palace.”

Lavoisier frowned sceptically at him. “If you’re unable to categorise information that means it’s defective.”

“The defect is in the information, not me.”

Sherlock hung up his blue robe and selected his clothes as Lavoisier considered this.

“It’s often said that emotions defy categorisation.” She said after a moment.

“I disagree,” said Sherlock, buttoning up a white shirt. He glanced over at his daemon. “Good, you do too.”

“Emotions are a response to stimuli.  Specific stimuli produce specific and logical reactions.  It is simple cause and effect. Of course they can be categorised.”

Sherlock pulled on his trousers. “Therefore the problem lies, as it often does, in an absence of information.” He said. “And in making the mistake of theorising before one has all the information.”

Lavoisier swished her tail. “Do we lack information?”

“We do,” replied Sherlock, rummaging through his sock index, “We have little knowledge in the way of daemon-touching, besides an understanding of how it relates to being a perpetrator of crime. We lack the information on how it corresponds to emotion, and as we’ve so often come across before, it is exceedingly difficult to be sure we’ve accounted for every emotional reaction possible to a situation.”

The bed dipped as Sherlock sat down to tie his shoes.

“John and Leo care about us very much, you know,” said Lavoisier gently.

Sherlock paused mid tie.

“We are very good at unravelling our emotions. We understand exactly what and why we feel, because we have all the information about the stimuli and response available to us.  You’re frustrated because you can’t categorise an emotional response, so clearly it isn’t your own response you’re attempting to file. It’s John’s. You were convinced he was leaving, because all the evidence indicated that would happen. But new information contradicted this conclusion, so you had to discard that theory, but you don’t understand exactly why this new information – that John isn’t leaving – exists. The answer is because they care about us.”

Lavoisier knew Sherlock was impressed by the length of the pause before he replied. “That can’t be the only reason.”

“No, the other reason is because they know our emotions in regards to them.”

Sherlock swung around to stare at her. “ _What?_ ”

“Leo told you. _You can’t lie in a daemon touch, both parties bare their souls_.”

“She said the motive was revealed. Nothing else.”

Lavoisier hesitated. “She didn’t tell the whole truth.”

Very slowly, Sherlock shifted his seat so he was directly facing his cat-daemon. “Then what would be the whole truth?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO SORRY for the massive wait between chapter updates, my life has been overrun by work, university and a few health issues, but I'm absolutely dedicated to getting this fic finished. I hope to have the next chapter up very soon. In the mean time, any and all feedback is more than welcome, and as always thank you for reading.


	6. Chapter 6

“Leo didn’t exactly explain it in scientific terms,” said Lavoisier, coolly returning her human’s glare. “She likened it to putting a muddy hand into clean water; the mud contaminates the water, yet the hand only receives the sensation of being wet.”

“That’s a ridiculous analogy.”

Lavoisier shrugged. “That’s what she said.”

“So because I physically held John’s daemon, _he_ _felt you_? _My_ daemon?”

“In essence yes; but he only felt your soul as it pertained to him. He didn’t get any notion of your emotions regarding -”

“I don’t have emotions regarding anything else.” Sherlock snapped.

“No. Those are just the emotions you hide better than your ones about John.”

Sherlock waved his arm exasperatedly as he went back to tying up his shoes. “All these deep and unnecessary insights into my psyche are dull, Lavoisier. If we could get back to the issue at hand.”

Lavoisier stood up on the bedcovers. “I think they are absolutely necessary. You’ve spent your life building up walls, constructing a mask to hide every glimpse of feeling you’ve ever had, and the second John Watson appeared everything started to crack.  Now you’ve gone and put your hand on his daemon, absolutely destroying every remaining defence, and if you think for one second that I’m going to let you try and block him out again, I question your intelligence.”

“But how can I _not_ put up the mask? That’s what I _do_ , and I have very good reasons for it, and you know every single one.”

“They’re not good enough now. Not for John and Leo.”

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair and flopped back on the bed. “Without the mask I am nothing.”

Lavoisier rolled her eyes.

“It is my strength.” Sherlock continued. “Emotions bounce off me, allowing my brain to run untarnished; a well maintained machine.”

“Except they _don’t_ bounce off.  And if your shield is breached, you have nothing left to protect yourself with. It’s a weakness.” Lavoisier stalked over the bed towards her human. “You should try and be more like John.”

Sherlock grimaced, and spat with disgust, “You would prefer me to be one of the masses, with an average, dull-”

“ _Don’t insult him_ ,” Lavoisier snarled.

Sherlock rolled over on the bed, facing determinedly away from his daemon with hunched shoulders.  “Caring is not an advantage.” He muttered.

“I agree that not caring would, objectively speaking, be a better position.  But you _do_ care, and reverting back to not caring is not an option.”

Sherlock turned back to face her. “I could try. If I built a special room in my mind palace-” 

“Can you honestly imagine yourself not caring about John?”

Sherlock swallowed visibly, staring blankly at the bedroom ceiling. “No,” he said softly, voice tinged with wonder.

Lavoisier padded over the bedcover and sat alongside him, her tail resting against his knee. Sherlock slowly reached a hand towards her and rubbed the soft fur along her cheek.

“What did you mean by ‘be more like John?’” he asked her.

“John has no shields; he shows very openly what he feels. Ordinary people get a surface reading of him very easily – that’s how he hides. People see what they expect to see, so they don’t probe any further. So their conclusions about him are inevitably wrong. He hides his true self with white noise – and he’s so damnably loyal that anything he believes in, he trusts in it so fully that it makes up the foundation of his character.  It’s unbreakable.”

“When he shot the cabbie,” said Sherlock. “His strong moral code.”

“Precisely. He’s embraced his morality fully, and as such he never second guesses his actions. That is an enviable power, and only one aspect of his strengths.”

“He hides in plain sight, whereas I stand out, and thus paint a target on my back.”

“Yes; but also, you’re like an oyster – once the shell is breached, you’re vulnerable and defenceless. But John is the opposite; his defences are on the inside, like-”

“-an avocado?” Sherlock said, smirking.

“You understand my meaning though? And why John’s method isn’t weak?”

“Obviously. But I don’t know _how_ to do it. Or even if I can.”

Lavoisier poked the bed with her paw. “I don’t know either.”

A silence stretched between them.

“I don’t think I can.” Said Sherlock eventually. “Everything you just explained about John – ridiculously expressive and loyal to the core - that’s the embodiment of a dog. He _is_ a dog.  Well; wolf – an undomesticated dog. Look at you – I’m a cat. I observe everything and consider myself above it; we’re fundamentally different.”

“Perhaps we can start _with_ John; he and Leo are the only things we care about, yes? So we discard the mask around them.”

“But-”

“Sherlock, they already know how we feel, and yet they’re staying; we could not have a safer environment to test this.”

“So basically, go back to how things were before except don’t close up around John. But _why_?”

“Because you want to! Of course you want someone to see the true you, the real you, the you I see every day – and now John has, and he _still cares about you_. Do you want to talk to him about it?”

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. “No. Do you?”

Lavoisier looked at the floor. “No. That conversation would be ... terrifying. But as your daemon, I feel I should advise you consider it.”

“The prospect of initiating such a conversation is repugnant. If John knows everything - he would have to do the asking.”

Lavoisier nodded, though unenthusiastically; her shoulders slumped slightly. “But I’m glad you listen to me.”

Sherlock smiled and rubbed the back of her neck. “You’re the only one I ever will.”

“Bit arrogant,” she muttered, arching into his fingers, “since I am you.”

“I like that your form is of a wild animal. I couldn’t bear the idea that we were domesticated.”

“Sherlock,” his daemon said, laughing, “If there’s anything you, me, and John and Leo are not, it’s domesticated.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a tricky chapter to write, if anyone's confused by anything please let me know so I can edit this properly; any and all critiques are extremely welcome.
> 
> While this is the last chapter of His Humanity Awakes, it's not the last chapter of this series - I have another story all planned out that I'm itching to write, which will conclude everything. Unfortunately I won't be able to write it until the new year due to university taking over my life, but don't worry it'll definitely be written. Thank you so much to everyone who left encouraging messages on my previous update, it was wonderful to hear your support after such a long absence. 
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed this story and as always, thank you for reading!


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